


Foiled by Thermodynamics

by Aivix



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: comment_fic, Humor, M/M, NASA, Pre-Slash, Relationship(s), Social Media, space disaster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6252421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aivix/pseuds/Aivix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney McKay, Senior Flight Director, has had every STARGATE program mission running smoothly.  Then the ATLANTIS missions begin with John Sheppard at the helm.</p><p>And he's teaching his crewmates coffee pong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before Mission One

Elizabeth's voice was soft in his ear, gentle and understanding; she'd come down from her office, had come to stand beside him as he gave the order that would seal Mission Control for the next God-knew-how-many-hours.

“GC,” he breathed, unable to look away from his monitors, “lock the doors.”

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, a silent support, and she didn't speak while he directed everyone to begin writing reports, downloading data, putting together the information that would be necessary to hand over to the investigating committee. Because, oh, there would definitely be an investigation, probably headed by Richard Woolsey and his merry men to especially twist the knife.

ARCTURUS had been his project, his baby, a station that would not only generate it's own power but be able to charge any docked vessel allowing NASA to reduce the amount of fuel the JUMPER, the GATESHIP, and the CHARIOT needed to carry for the round-trip between Earth and space station. It was Brendan Gall's posit that they might even be able to harness some of the power generation to create stations capable of also becoming ships.

Now it was gone. Why, how, they'd learn soon enough, but for the moment, Rodney grieved for the loss of both the station and its crew.

“Rodney?”

He forced himself to turn away from the monitors, six cardiac monitors are reading LOS in bright red letters. “Elizabeth...”

She pulled him into a hug, cradling the back of his head in her hand, and when she pulled away, her eyes were as tear filled as his own.

* * *

_“...and we mustn't forget that ARCTURUS' crew—Col Marshall Sumner, Lt Aiden Ford, Sgt Dean Bates, and Doctors Peter Grodin, Alana Dumais, Brendan Gall, and David Abrams—did not truly die: in the passage from this life, they began another one, where they live on, not only in the halls of NASA but in the hearts and minds of everyone around the world. They are remembered, for their mission and for the advancements they gave science, for the hopes and dreams they had and shared, for the wonderful people they were._

_“True death occurs when your name is spoken for the last time. But for ARCTURUS, they will experience everlasting life.”_

The memorial had drawn a decent number of people onto NASA's public grounds. Civilians in dark clothing were mixed in with the personnel in their suits and dresses; the families of the crew had been given the option to spend the service in a private area, away from prying eyes, but most had rejected it in favor of being among a crowd of astronauts and technicians who'd known their loved ones.

Elizabeth, once she'd finished her speech, had retreated to the rear of it all. She'd spent so many weeks in front of cameras and committees that she needed a chance to sneak off, even if it was just the idea of it over the reality: she hadn't done much sneaking since she'd taken the position as Director five years ago.

Still, it gave her a good vantage point to watch the milling of those around and a few steps below her: John Sheppard was speaking with Ford's grandparents and cousin, retired Flight Director Dillon Everett was speaking with Sumner's widow, Rodney was speaking with Abrams' sister and Gall's mothers.

She sighed as she took in the sight: Rodney hadn't slept in days, Elizabeth could see the truth of it written in dark smudges beneath his eyes, in the drawn corners of his mouth, the slight sloppiness of his clothing. The entry and exit punches for his ID would likely show that even after he was forced to go home, he returned as soon as Elizabeth had gone and resumed his relentless search for the root cause of the disaster.

He couldn't know that JPL had united with NASA's in-house technicians to shift through years of data—requisition orders, raw code, operating parameters, every single transmission from the day ARCTURUS booted up to the day she returned to the Earth—and after weeks of searching, had found it: one line of code in a sea of millions.

Jeannie had been the one to find it, too; she'd been the only person at JPL willing to look over the codes Rodney himself had done, combing through it expecting to find nothing.

“It wasn't intentional. I think he transposed two numbers by mistake and no one in Coding noticed when it went in for secondary and tertiary checks,” she'd told Elizabeth a few days before the memorial, “It allowed for a catastrophic overload to occur in one of the power cells which wouldn't have been a problem if CHARIOT had been docked to absorb it into it's reserves, but without the ship... it overheated the cell to the point of ignition.”

Neither needed to remark on what happened thereafter.

Honestly, there was a reason NASA had a profuse hatred of anything flammable.

But with that knowledge, Elizabeth had sent out a quiet order to a select few people to seal the record from Rodney for the time being. Richard Woolsey had even agreed (shock of shocks) that it had been an error that did no lie solely on their Flight Director/Project Manager: they were NASA, they had departments to check other departments and no less than twelve eyes had gone through that code. Unfortunately, painfully, terribly, things sometimes slipped by.

There would come a time, of course, where Elizabeth told him what had led the station's loss. He couldn't be spared the awareness lest the mistake happen again, yet she could give him time to move through his grief before she revealed it.

He just... he needed the time.

So, for the moment, as Rodney stood there, grieving with the families of their fallen crew, he lived in ignorance.


	2. Mission One

If there was one thing that their Flight Director hated—absolutely _hated_ —it was when one of the crew decided to play fast and loose with important information. Want to withhold medical information from the Flight Surgeon, fine, Beckett was a big boy with a hell of a lot of patience... and also had biosensors for every crewmember.

Withholding information from Rodney McKay and his minions? No, that could result in death, destruction, and overall Bad Things that Rodney did NOT want to have to explain to Elizabeth, and after years drilling that into every STARGATE Program crewmember, he'd finally gotten to the point where no one dared to keep anything from him.

Seriously, he knew when the ship had so much as had a blip in a light panel now and that was just how he liked it.

Enter career astronaut and veteran pain in the ass John Patrick Sheppard.

Radek set a coffee mug in front of Rodney, who had his head in his hands at his station, and then darted off; overhead, Elizabeth Weir, the frigging _director of NASA_ was smirking at both him and the videofeed.

“Houston to ATLANTIS, I hate you.”

“ATLANTIS to Houston, you love me, admit it.”

“GC, Flight, the flirting is helping NASA TV's ratings.”

“Flight to GC, I hate you too,” he huffed, and then, while glaring at Sheppard who couldn't even see him, said, “Houston to ATLANTIS, get us the readings now or I will not be permitting JPL to load the game consoles that you bribed them to add into the resupply next week.”

John's face, despite being grainy, showed half a second of shock followed by cool aplomb. “ATLANTIS to Houston, Lorne will have the readings transmitted in the next twenty minutes.”

“Houston to ATLANTIS, thank you.”

“GC, Flight, ratings dropped again.”

The coffee mug was pitched so beautifully that when it clocked Chuck on the head, it left a perfectly round, neat lump on the dead center of his scalp.

* * *

“Houston to ATLANTIS. Sheppard, I swear, I'm going to wring your skinny neck soon.”

“ATLANTIS to Houston. You say the sweetest things, Director. I feel all warm inside.”

Rodney contained his scream, barely, and looked back at Radek who shrugged, some help he was. “Houston to ATLANTIS, is it too much to ask for one day without your shenanigans?”

“ATLANTIS to Houston, you make it sound like we're a rowdy group of drunk grad students up here.”

“Houston to ATLANTIS, you're playing _beer pong_ in the rec. You're making yourselves sound like _rowdy drunk grad students_.”

“ATLANTIS, Houston. First of all, it's _coffee_ pong, and second, you just wish you were up here with us.”

As NASA's Senior Flight Director, Rodney had to set an example of professionalism while commanding respect and authority (Elizabeth's words, rest assured) and he had long ago learned to leave the room in Radek's exceedingly capable hands when he felt like he might do something distinctly Un-Flight Director-like. He could maintain a level of calm in the face of overwhelming failure (the loss of ATLANTIS' predecessor ARCTURUS and it's commander, Sumner), and he had never, ever retaliated against any astronaut that made their disdain for him clear.

Somehow, that all went out the window when Sheppard caught the camera's position and smirked widely at it before tossing a small plastic ball toward the floating pouches of coffee.

The blessing of ATLANTIS' construction was in this: Ground Control Houston had full remote override capabilities, including the inertial dampeners and the artificial gravity.

And the systems were all wired to be monitored through his station.

One flick and Sheppard, Lorne, Dex, and Parrish all dropped to the deck, along with their game components.

“ATLANTIS to Houston, well-played, sir. Well-played.”

* * *

Rodney was going to have a stroke today, he could feel it. His left eyelid was twitching, he could time his own pulse when he clenched his jaw.

Yes, a stroke.

It was good Beckett was in the room.

“Carson...”

“He's got quite the stamina, I must say.”

What the hell was that in his mouth? Oh, a chip off a tooth, he'd wanted to go to the dentist this week, really he had.

“Beckett!”

The Flight Surgeon looked up at him, eyes passive and expression professional, and cocked an eyebrow. “I cannot turn off the alarm, Rodney, you know that.”

“Then tell him to stop!” The words were hissed.

“Aye, yes, I should tell a healthy, virile adult male who's in bloody space for thirteen months that he should abstain from any and all sexual behaviors. I suspect it will be well received by the crew.”

The vein in his temple was throbbing.

“Can't you at least silence the alert?!”

Carson was smirking at him, _smirking_ , fucking Scotsman. “Uh, no. Not until his heartrate drops back to baseline.”

Oh, good, so they'd spent five minutes listening to the shrill blare of the Medical Alert and would have to listen until Sheppard, erm, finished.

Rodney turned to Radek, pointed back toward Beckett's console, and ordered, “Have JPL patch that.”

“I wonder if the reduced gravity has an effect on achieving orgasm,” Carson posited then, “They do find that erections are harder to achieve and maintain in zero-g.”

“Did you just... no puns in Mission Control! And who the hell funded _sex science_ to find that out?”

Eyes glinted with nerdy glee, Carson was giddy as he said, “No funding was needed. The Shuttle crews reported it often enough and through a variety of factors that the Flight Surgeons could effectively do a scientific study.”

“I am terrified that you knew that off the top of your head. Pervert.”

He went on, undeterred by the insult or the pinched look cast at him, “Rodney, could you imagine if we had money to study it? It will eventually be a problem we have to deal with, putting people out onto Mars and beyond, and it would help to have data to work with now rather than later. All we'd need are self-reported logs and oh, I wonder if I could get a private moment to speak with the ladies, perhaps discuss...”

“JESUS,” Rodney yelped, “Yes, yes, whatever you want. God, just stop, Cadman is up there and she'll kill me with her _mind_ if she thinks I'm talking about her, you know, _business_ with you!”

“ATLANTIS to Houston. Hey, boys, Sheppard's off comms, but the rest of us are still on an open channel.”

Okay, forget the stroke, Rodney was pretty sure his head was just going to explode instead.


	3. Mission One: Aboard ATLANTIS

“Oh, come on!”

Laura shrugged at him, and dropped the length of PVC they'd been using as a bat. “You know the rules,” she pointed out.

“But that's cheating!” He gestured wildly between Oliver and Teyla, the pair who'd interrupted what had been an otherwise content round of Mini Quidditch. “There was interference!”

“Hey, I caught snitch and I won. Now go be a good little Engineer and engineer us some dinner.”

Lorne grumbled as he skulked off toward the kitchen.

* * *

Amelia had thought she'd known the definition of lazy Sunday: bed, book, cat, tea. Preferably with a drizzling rain outside her apartment window.

It was simple, but oh, so perfect.

Then she'd gone to ATLANTIS and found a whole new level—

“Hey, sling that popcorn over here.”

“Elbow in my kidney! Jesus, Ronon, _move_.”

“S'ry.”

“Who's got the grape juice?”

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

—laying on a tetris block of mattresses in the rec, while Monty Python movies played and her crew argued and teased and ate.

No cat, no book, no drizzling rain.

“Hey, you passing out?” Sheppard whispered as her eyes slipped closed.

“Um hm.”

A blanket fell over her, the edges tucked around her side. Oliver pressed a pillow under her head, and ran a hand through her hair.

“Good night, Miss Amelia.”

She hummed as she fell asleep.


	4. Between Missions One and Two

**LETTERS Message System Application**  
**Username:** JPSheppard  
**Password:** **********

Please select internal messaging system and click enter:  
[ _NASA_ ] [ JPL ] [ JSC ] [ KSC ] [ ATLANTIS ]  
**[ENTER]**  


Chat: Evan Lorne (/AC/ATLANTIS)  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Good morning, sunshine!  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Come on, Lorne, time to rise and greet the day!  
 _LORNE:_ Fuck you, sir.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Now, now, no need to sass me, young man.  
 _LORNE:_ There's a need to sass. A powerful need.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Well, you're going to need to channel that sass into waking up.  
 _LORNE:_ That's a tall order.  
 _LORNE:_ I think I left my spine at the bar.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ I knew I was forgetting to grab something after I poured you into Teyla's car last night.  
 _LORNE:_ Did I do anything I should know about?  
 _SHEPPARD:_ You mean like letting us convince you that the moon was a planet?  
 _SHEPPARD:_ You know, again. And Laura got it on tape this time.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ You should see what Chuck did with it, too. JPL is having viewings.  
 _LORNE:_ [typing...]  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Yes?  
 _LORNE:_ When I get my revenge—and I will—I hope you will understand. Sir.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ We'll see, Lorne.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Enjoy your hangover!

Chat: Elizabeth Weir (/Director)  
_SHEPPARD:_ Remember when our parents grounded us for an entire summer?  
_WEIR:_ Haven't we talked about starting prank wars, John? Extensively?  
_SHEPPARD:_ It's amazing that I can mention something from childhood  
_SHEPPARD:_ and you know exactly what I'm talking about.  
_WEIR:_ After 20-odd years, I'm practically telepathic with you.

* * *

**GC Chuck** @ChucktheCampbell  
@ZelenkaJSC This is not a drill. I need a cape.  & a tux. Simultaneously. Repeat. Not. A. Drill. #secretreasons

**R. Zelenka** @ZelenkaJSC  
@ChucktheCampbell I have several capes. #secretreasons

**Yee Jee Tso** @SpareTimeGamer  
@ChucktheCampbell I've got a tux that might fit you. #secretreasons? #prankwarmorelikeit

**GC Chuck** @ChucktheCampbell  
@SpareTimeGamer Be careful saying things like that—the Director is practically omnipotent. #NoPrankWarHere

**Dr. Elizabeth Weir** @NASADirector  
@ChucktheCampbell Practically? #IKnowAll #ISeeAll #ISignYourPaycheck

**GC Chuck** @ChucktheCampbell  
@SpareTimeGamer See?

**Yee Jee Tso** @SpareTimeGamer  
@ChucktheCampbell Well, that's just creepy.

**Dr. Elizabeth Weir** @NASADirector  
@ChucktheCampbell For the record, were one to attempt a prank on John Sheppard, I wouldn't post it on Twitter.

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@NASADirector Come on, Liz, don't warn them. I love watching them formulate plans. #AsIfICanBeBeaten

@ColJSheppard Direct Messages  
**GC Chuck** @ChucktheCampbell  
_Actually, we're trying to prank Director McKay._

@ChucktheCampbell Direct Messages  
**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
_Turn on LETTERS. I'm helping you plan this._

* * *

@ColJSheppard Direct Messages   
**GC Chuck** @ChucktheCampbell  
 _Abort mission!  
Repeat-Abort!_

@ChucktheCampbell Direct Messages  
 **Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
 _Send out the Danger Will Robinson to Lorne.  
And Amelia._

@ColJSheppard Direct Messages   
**GC Chuck** @ChucktheCampbell  
 _Too late._

**Dr. Elizabeth Weir** @NASADirector  
@ColJSheppard Please join me in my office. #Busted

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@NASADirector Yes, ma'am. On my way. #IDidNothing

**Dr. Elizabeth Weir** @NASADirector  
@ColJSheppard #10MinuteWarning

**makahiki'Imi Loa** @SpecialistDex  
@ColJSheppard Dude, it went too far.

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@SpecialistDex How bad?

**makahiki'Imi Loa** @SpecialistDex  
@ColJSheppard This bad. [instagram.com/p/BB8rEiASGa1](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/aivix/77322155/4715/4715_original.png)

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@SpecialistDex WHY DID YOU POST IT ON INSTAGRAM?

**Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
@SpecialistDex @ColJSheppard You're both morons. STOP POSTING ON TWITTER. Tumblr is on this and it's only a matter of time before CNN is.

> **CNN SCIENCE NEWS**
> 
> HOUSTON—It seems the spring fever has hit NASA's Johnson Space Center a bit late this year: a prank war has been carried out among several of the less reserved members of the Agency, including Astronaut John Sheppard and Flight Control Staff Members Radek Zelenka and Charles Campbell.
> 
> “There's a lot of pressure on anyone who works here, so it's really just a way for everyone to blow off steam,” one person, who asked not to be named, told us. When asked about how the higher ups might feel about the activity, our source elaborated, “All the pranks are harmless—lots of, like, Elmer's glue on doorknobs and covering offices in post-it notes, that kind of stuff.”
> 
> That said, it does appear that the prank war may be over as a photo of NASA Director Elizabeth Weir was released on EVA Specialist Ronon Dex's Instagram page today. In the photo, which does use some of Instagram's inbuilt filters, it appears that Dr. Weir's previously brown hair is now blue. A caption on the post reading _This bad_ references earlier Twitter posts between Dex and Sheppard.


	5. Mission Two

“Decompression alarm!”

“Everyone into suits! Where's the breach?”

Banks took a second to look at the screen in front of her. “Bow. Forward storage compartment.”

“That's Laura's payload,” Parrish yelled from his station; even with the helmet of his SAS in place, his voice was clear as day.

Sheppard shouted back, “We'll have JPL resupply. Head count!”

They were missing Cadman, Lorne, and Dex.

Fuck.

“Is anywhere else compromised?”

“No, looks like the airlocks slammed into place at the trigger,” Amelia answered, the hiss of the suit pressurizing giving her background audio, and Jennifer added, “Oxygen levels and pressurization are holding. I think we're clear.”

“Suits stay on for now.” John nodded toward the forward crew quarters. “Let's go find our people and then we'll re-evaluate. Keller, you head to sickbay and prep for possible injuries.”

“Yes, sir.”

They found Lorne on the floor of his quarters, having been thrown out of his bunk by the jarring of the station, and Cadman was in her lab, having been adjusting experiments, when the jerking sent an unsecured crate slamming into her. It'd jammed her up against one bulkhead and pinned her there, until Sheppard and Parrish raced into the room to rescue her.

Thankfully, nothing appeared broken on either and Lorne's concussion looked to be the worst injury.

Dex, the giant lug of a man, was still snoring away, clearly not bothered in the least by the scream of the klaxons. Sheppard took immense pleasure in waking the man up with a booted foot to the ass.

Hey, _he_ wasn't the EVA Specialist—they were gonna need Dex up and lumbering.

“What the hell is that?” he demanded after snapping awake, then, as the noise penetrated the fog of sleep, Ronon cursed and dove for his suit. He was fully dressed before realizing he was missing his head cap, his biosensors, and oh, pants.

It was too late to add them though.

They raced back to the cockpit—thank God, JPL had moved the command module to the center of the station—to find Banks and Emmagan slapping at every comm system activation point they could.

“What is it?”

“We've lost contact with Houston.”

“Great. This is just getting better and better.”

“Someone's gonna have to go check the damage.”

All eyes went to Dex.

“Hey, my ship, my job,” Sheppard declared, glancing between each of his present crew, “We clear to EVA storage?”

“John, you're our Commander and pilot, but you're neither an Engineer nor an EVA specialist. Now, our engineer is in sickbay, but our EVA Specialist is standing beside you.”

Why did Teyla have to be so unbearably logical? Oh, right, she was their Educational Specialist. She was used to talking to children.

“Our EVA specialist is wearing Scooby Doo boxers and nothing else and until I know the extent of the damage, he's not disengaging the suit just to put on pants.”

No one could argue with that.

Well, they could, but after someone (Banks) muttered, “Hero Complex,” no one else dared comment and John only eyed them all before taking off to EVA storage.

(“I didn't think I'd ever be able to say this, but _one whole side of the spacecraft is missing_.”

“Seriously?”

“No, but we're missing an entire panel—I could enter the bay through this hole without snagging anything. And the antennas are fried, we'll have to use the ones they sent for Lagrangian Point as replacements.”

“Understood. Now get back in here.”

“On my way.”)


	6. Mission Two: Stay Alive

**NASA** @NASA  
Technical Malfunction on @ATLANTIS. #MissionTwo

 **Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
@ZelenkaJSC Where the hell are you?

 **R. Zelenka** @ZelenkaJSC  
@JSCFlightDirector On my way. #CallMe

>   
>  **Future-Mrs-John-Sheppard:**
> 
> Was anyone else just watching NASA TV? Did a fucking meteor just hit the space station?
> 
> #ATLANTIS #Space Husband
> 
> 129 notes

**NASA** @NASA  
LOS. @ATLANTIS #MissionTwo

 **Dr. Elizabeth Weir** @NASADirector  
We are working to determine the reason for @ATLANTIS' loss of signal. Please direct all questions to @NASAMedia.

@NASA Direct Messages  
**Dr. Elizabeth Weir** @NASADirector  
_Turn off the data update auto-post!_

 **Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
@ChucktheCampbell @CarterofABYDOS Phones. Answer. Now.

  


**CNN BREAKING NEWS: COMMUNICATIONS LOST WITH THE ATLANTIS SPACE STATION**

5:44am – Source states that many of NASA's employees are being called in. This includes former astronauts of the ABYDOS/COMMAND Missions, Dr. Samantha Carter and Colonel Jonathan O'Neill, Ret.

5:18am – We are hearing from a source within Mission Control, whom asked not to be named, that following the Genii Meteor Shower, all transmissions between Earth and the ATLANTIS space station ceased. NASA is unsure at this time whether the station is having a technical malfunction or if the station incurred damage during the latter part of the shower.

  


**Samantha Carter, Astra** @CarterofABYDOS  
@JacksonJPL Is Jack with you?

 **JPL Linguistics** @JacksonJPL  
@CarterofABYDOS Just got to his house. Will have him in front of a camera ASAP.

>   
>  **BlacklistedSoul4471:**
> 
> (My father is curled up on the floor, rocking back and forth.)  
>  **Me:** You know they're probably just sensationalizing this, right?  
>  **Dad:** Go away and let me be anxious in peace.
> 
> #dramatic #ATLANTIS
> 
> 19 notes

**NASA MediaTalk** @NASAMedia  
@CaribbeanOrphan @ATLANTIS was built to take quite a bit of abuse from space debris, so our focus is on a technical failure, not structural.

 **NASA MediaTalk** @NASAMedia  
@DragonFyre2029 2 satellites are always watching @ATLANTIS. 1 is being moved to give us a better view of the radio transmitters on bow.

  


**CNN BREAKING NEWS: GENII METEOR STORM DAMAGED SPACE STATION**

9:01am – A press conference to be held at 10am this morning with Director of NASA Dr. Elizabeth Weir, Flight Director Radek Zelenka, and the Instrumentation and Communications Officer (INCO) Walter Harriman.

8:56am – Per our source, the Oracle satellite has been moved into position and begun sending images back to Mission Control in Houston. There is damage to ATLANTIS of a severe nature, but the source states that is not considered catastrophic.

  


**JACK** @JONeillAstronut  
@JSCFlightDirector You're gonna want to see this.

 **Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
@JONeillAstronut Delete that before the internet is at Elizabeth's door.

 **Dr. Elizabeth Weir** @NASADirector  
@JSCFlightDirector @JONeillAstronut They're already here. Please use the internal message system until after 10am.

 **JACK** @JONeillAstronut  
@NASADirector @JSCFlightDirector Wilco.

>   
>  **xAFlightlessManicottix:**  
>  Guysguysguys, go check out the NASA App! The Oracle satellite was pointed toward the Pegasus Dwarf Irregular Galaxy and automatically posted any picture taken and here's the thing: NASA didn't turn off that feature when they transferred it to look at ATLANTIS! Fresh pics of the station and _someone's doing an EVA!_
> 
> #NASA FTW #There's an app for that #Who wants to bet that it's Sheppard?
> 
> 4,398 notes

LETTERS Message System, Access: JPL, S. Siler.  
_MCKAY (09:41:03):_ What do they have up there to patch a hole 5m x 2m?  
_SILER (09:41:31):_ Well, they've got sheet metal and parts for the Lagrangian Point satellite in the payload.  
_MCKAY (09:41:50):_ Sheet metal. Great, they're going to put a bandaid on a sucking wound.  
_SILER (09:42:17):_ Sucking wound is the least of their issues if they don't get their comms back.  
_MCKAY (09:42:42):_ Thank you for that moronic and unnecessary reminder.  
_SILER (09:43:00):_ You're welcome.

  


**CNN BREAKING NEWS: ATLANTIS CRISIS**

11:25am – Mission Control source states that confirmation has been made: a member of the crew is attempting repairs to the damaged section of ATLANTIS.

10:41am – The press briefing with the Director of NASA ended minutes ago. Dr. Elizabeth Weir was firm that she does not think this event is anything like the ARCTURUS disaster, and expects that NASA will find some way to contact the astronauts within the next few hours.

When asked if her statement meant that they had confirmation that the ATLANTIS crew was alive, she replied, “We have no expectation that the damage to the bow in anyway harmed them. ATLANTIS' life support system has a lockdown procedure in place that would have sealed the pertinent airlocks the moment it detected a decompression event.”

She did not comment on the NASA App photos.

10:29am – The NASA app, which until moments ago, has been updating with photos taken of the crippled space station. Some believe a small white figure in one photo could be Commander John Sheppard doing an EVA of the damage.

  


**Trending Right Now:**  
ATLANTIS _89K Tweets_  
#PalmSunday _42K Tweets_  
#JohnSheppard _18.7K Tweets_  
PBJ Time _21.1K Tweets_  
#GeniiMeteorShower _19K Tweets_  
NASA _53.8K Tweets_  
North West _71.3K Tweets_

 **Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@NASA For the record, @SpecialistDex can sleep through the Decompression alarm. #YouCantTakeMySleepFromMe #OhLookAHole

 **Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
@ColJSheppard Oh, good, you're not dead.

@NASADirector Direct Messages  
**Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
_He's not dead. I'm ordering pizza._

 **NASA** @NASA  
Contact has been made with @ColJSheppard. @ATLANTIS #MissionTwo

>   
>  **Motherlode-ofDragons:**
> 
> i swear to god, i have a lie-in one time and sleep through a fucking world event.
> 
> #atlantis #those motherfuckers are the luckiest crew ever #is sheppard fixing atlantis by himself? #hardcore
> 
> 906 notes


	7. Mission Two

“Houston to ATLANTIS. You're insane.”

“ATLANTIS to Houston. Flight, insanity is kind of the hallmark of the Astronaut Corps. Sane people typically don't want to sit on top of a couple of tons of rocket fuel, explode themselves into space, and then, you know, spend time in an oxygen-less void.”

“Houston to ATLANTIS. There is a special level for you, Sheppard, I swear to God—the JUMPER is prepped for launch. You're getting on it when it docks!”

There was a good minute of silence from John's end of the comm, then, with his voice softer, he said, “ATLANTIS to Houston. Rodney, it's fine, we're all okay. Ronon and I are going to continue the EVAs, try to get a better seal on the repair while JPL works on the replacement section,” he took a breath, then, “I'm not injured, neither are Oliver, Jen, Ronon, Amelia, or Teyla. Laura's already back on her feet and Evan will be out of sickbay soon. We're _fine_.”

“ATLANTIS, Houston, as a reminder, there is a hole in your space station the size of a Buick that you covered with sheet metal and is leaking like a goddamn sieve. Yes, perfectly fine. Oh, wait, that's sarcasm.” He clenched on hand into a fist, refusing to look over at Elizabeth who was no doubt going to be yelling at him later. “But since you're _fine_ , I will let Canaveral know that Launch Prep is rescinded... for the moment. I hold the right to re-evaluate the situation in 48 hours.”

“Houston, ATLANTIS. Thank you, sir. And tell JPL that the usual terms apply. They'll know what it means.”

Rodney rolled his eyes, because who was John kidding. “ATLANTIS, Houston, everyone knows what it means.”

“Aw, do they?”

“Houston to ATLANTIS. Remember your callsigns, ATLANTIS. And yes, Sheppard, we all know.”

John was smiling, Rodney could sense it. “ATLANTIS to Houston, and here I thought I was the epitome of stealth and anonymous donations.”

For the record, John Sheppard was the richest astronaut in the history of NASA. Most came in as the average military man or science doctorate, many carrying their educational loans. They budgeted, balanced checkbooks, accounted for every spent penny. John, however, had come from the kind of family where they wiped their runny noses with fifty-dollar bills and lit hundreds on fire to light a cigarette, and it was common knowledge that he'd come into his trust fund at 22.

And didn't touch it until he was well into his thirties, chosen for the ATLANTIS Crew and listening to a friend at JPL complain about budget cuts.

“Houston to ATLANTIS, perhaps if your finances weren't a matter of public record. Also, may I recommend that when donating to JPL's funding, you don't use the name 'Awesome Space Pilot'?”

“ATLANTIS to Houston, I'll have you know that I only used that name once.”

Lies. It'd been more than once, many more times than once.

Rodney settled back into his chair, a lopsided smile on his face: things weren't great up there, the airlocks would cut off the affected lab and keep the rest of the station pressurized, but two days was a long time and if they had to snark at each other to manage their stress, so be it. “Houston to ATLANTIS. At least it was more tasteful than King John of All Terran Space and Acrobat of the Sky.”

“Houston, ATLANTIS. That's my shortened title. I can give you the full one if you have five minutes.”

“ATLANTIS, Houston. Get back to work, Space Pilot. You've got two days to seal those leaks or the JUMPER will be coming to drag your ass back down here.”

“Houston, ATLANTIS. Wilco.”

Up in her office, watching Mission Control through the plate glass, Elizabeth slipped her radio to a private channel. “Flight.”

“Director.”

“If you need any more of the names John's donated under, I also have a list of the ones he's used for JSC, Kennedy, Space Camp, and the ESA.”

“You're a yenta, Elizabeth. A mettling, ratings-hungry yenta.”

* * *

Rodney plunked into his chair right as the clock flipped to nine, nodding at Radek when a mug was set in front of him; he drank down cup number one and was halfway through cup number two when he was able to shake off the last grips of the nightmare that had marred his sleep.

A week since the incident and he was still unable to get a full night's rest, despite seeing the repairs via the camera feeds: the station was fine, the crew were fine, he should be fine.

Except all he'd done since then was think about ARCTURUS, over and over.

He sighed and drained the mug, setting it aside—and hearing it quickly be replaced with one of the teas Carson had deigned to dilute the coffee consumption—before glancing up at the main screen. ATLANTIS' cockpit camera was up and Evan Lorne was in view, clicking away at consoles with a mildly exhausted look on his face.

“Good morning, ATLANTIS. This is Houston.”

“Good morning, Houston, ATLANTIS. Hopefully y'all have gotten a bit more sleep than we did.” Lorne yawned and rubbed at his eyes a little.

“ATLANTIS, Houston. Oh? Something keep you up last night?”

“Houston, ATLANTIS, Sheppard and Dex were playing AstroGolf. In the corridor. All night.”

Elizabeth's dainty snort of amusement was muffled on the line, but Rodney heard it all the same.

“Houston to ATLANTIS, I'll speak to Colonel Sheppard when he gets up about playing quieter games when he and Dex are on evening rotation.”

“That would be appreciated. Although I'm not sure that will help: AstroGolf was what we bargained them down to from AstroSoccer and AstroFootball.”

Rodney smirked into his mug. “ATLANTIS, Houston, I'll see what I can also do about the insistence on putting Astro in front of everything lately.”

“Houston, ATLANTIS. Astro, Aero, Spacey, and Timey Wimey.”

Well, for all the nightmares and all the stress and anxiety, it seemed that John and Ronon were carrying on as they normally did.

“ATLANTIS, Houston. I'll see what I can do, but those two never change.”

“If I smother them in their sleep, it's their own damned fault.”

A minute later, Chuck announced, “Hey, it looks like threatening each other is as good for NASA TV as the flirting!”

“They are forcing me to drink tea, Campbell,” Rodney growled back.

Chuck didn't say anything else.


	8. Between Missions Two and Three

It was no shock when Sheppard asked Rodney out on a date over the comms. Seriously, no shock whatsoever, a complete and total lack of shock and shock like emotions: Mission Control had been listening to the pair flirt—

“The Senior Flight Director does not _flirt_!”

“Yes, yes, you are paragon of virtue.”

“Get out of my office.”

—for the entirety of two ATLANTIS missions.

NASA TV's ratings had never been higher.

(“Hey, could you two take a camera on the date?” Chuck asked.

Rodney glared and brandished his coffee cup.)

And after years of working with ~~the bastard~~ their boss, no one was surprised either when Rodney rejected the offer out of hand and went on with the landing protocols. They still had half an hour before the JUMPER landed, which was 30 minutes of possible catastrophes, and well, Rodney wouldn't be McKay if he didn't devote the entirety of his attention to that, not the fact that a couple million people on Earth just heard him rejecting the Most Famous And Beloved Hero of Recent Years.

Just because he'd saved the crew after an explosive decompression incident and then managed to duct tape the giant hole in ATLANTIS' side—screw you, meteor storm—with sheeting and prayers. The fact that he wasn't even the Mission Engineer had contributed fully to the adoration he continued to experience.

“JUMPER to Houston. Flight, I'll pick you up at 1600 the day after they release us from rehab.”

“Houston to JUMPER. Sheppard, focus on your AOA and cut the chatter.”

“JUMPER to Houston, yes, sir. I love it when you give me orders. It makes me tingly.”

Someone had snickered to Rodney's left, a headache had bloomed, and by the time he got home to collapse, even Sam was giving him a wide berth. Said cat would later become a traitor when John kept his word and showed up in Rodney's living room ten days after returning to Earth for the mission break.

Purring away in John's lap, Sam almost seemed to be saying, _You wanna hit this_.

“Sheppard, go away.”

“Sure. You wanna change before we go out?”

“You. Alone. Go away.”

“Aw, Rodney.”

Jesus, Sheppard was pouting. Rodney could feel his resolve crumbling under that gaze: he'd driven grown men and women to tears with the power of his stubbornness, but this one was going to crumple _him_ with puppy dog eyes.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “Fine. Fine, we'll go on one date. One fraternizing, unprofessional date.”

“I don't normally give my dates descriptors until after I've had it.”

“You want to go out tonight or not?”

“Oh, I do.” John smiled beatifically. “Wear jeans.”

Rodney caved.

Which, fuck him, he was both glad and intensely pissed off that he had.

“Ready for another go, Flight Director?” Markham yelled from the cockpit.

“Kill me now!”

“That's a yes!”

“You are an evil, evil man.”

The plane started the ascent of the parabola, nose high and the giddiness rose in Rodney's belly as they approached the moment of nose low. Euphoria soaring as those in the cabin lost contact with the bulkhead floor, floating for precious seconds. Even his nausea couldn't take away the feelings running through his veins, a mixture of bliss, longing, and affection.

Sheppard laughed as he pushed off and spun toward him, still spinning when he caught Rodney's arms.

The next time Markham asked if he wanted another run, Rodney told him, “Yes! Go!” and held onto John until they were in mid-air, his lips so perfectly in front of his own.

(Their first kiss, they learned when they showed up to JSC the next morning, had been broadcast around the world from the Vomit Comet's cabin-mounted broadcast camera.

Chuck greeted them for every mission briefing wearing an SAS helmet thereafter.)

* * *

Here was the problem with playing jokes on Ronon Dex: the man did not care. Seriously, he had to be the most laidback astronaut to ever come through NASA training... unless you got on his bad side, of course, and then you'd do best to fucking _run_ before 6' 7” of hawaiian came bearing down on you.

That said, whomever had stolen Ronon's clothing while he was in the shower (and everyone was looking at John for that one) had clearly not counted on his absolute body confidence and lack of society-taught shame.

“Please tell me you have a spare pair of pants in your locker,” Michael asked, trying desperately to not look at Ronon's cock.

(He failed.

Yep, there was officially nothing about Ronon Dex that did not make Michael feel inadequate. His hatred of the astronaut was complete.)

The women in the cafeteria booed and hollered; a couple of guys wolf-whistled as Ronon dropped into a seat, and slouched with his legs spread.

“Jesus, put it away!” Michael whined.

Someone threw a pair of sunglasses at him.

“Oh, fuck you, Holland!”


	9. Mission Three

“I hate you all. Every last one of you. Pure hate.”

Radek snickered at his friend's back for a few seconds: on the big screen at the front of the room, John Sheppard and the rest of the ATLANTIS crew were wearing party hats (Ronon had on two, fashioned into colorful horns) and singing _It's my party and I'll cry if I want toooooooo, cry if I want to, cry if I want to!_ in a round.

“Oh, Rodney,” Elizabeth grinned, a plate with a slice of chocolate cake in her hands, “You had to have known that John would never have let your birthday pass without doing something.”

“Having you send a gift, yes, that I expected. Not _telling all of Mission Control_.”

“ATLANTIS to Houston. You know what I think you guys need? A conga line.”

“Houston to ATLANTIS. No! No we do not need a conga line. Stop trying to teach my minions bad behavior!”

“ATLANTIS to Houston. Come on, Flight, a NASA conga line! Betcha no one's done it before.”

“Houston to ATLANTIS. Because no one is stupid enough to _abandon_ their station.”

John pouted at him.

“Houston to ATLANTIS. Don't you all have work you should be doing anyway?”

“ATLANTIS to Houston, we have two hours of planned downtime care of our wonderful Flight Surgeon, Dr. Beckett. Apparently, we've earned it.”

“Flight to Surgeon. You will pay for this.”

“Surgeon to Flight, I believe, Rodney, that I can take you.”

The singing resumed.

This time, it was more than just the space station crew, and Rodney silently started plotting his revenge on his boyfriend.


	10. Between Missions Three and Four

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@JSCFlightDirector Did you just call my father a bad name on national tv? #Bleep

**Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
@ColJSheppard I called him something in French. Censor happy censors are censor happy.

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@JSCFlightDirector That doesn't mean you didn't call him a bad name, Rodney. #Bleep

**Rodney McKay PhD PhD** JSCFlightDirector  
@ColJSheppard It wasn't a bad name!

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@JSCFlightDirector It better not be. #bleepgate

LETTERS Message System, Access: NASA, R. McKay.  
_MCKAY:_ It may not have been the *nicest* word, but it wasn't a curse.  
_SHEPPARD:_ You do realize that he is the #2 donor to the program, right?  
_SHEPPARD:_ And he actually likes you.  
_MCKAY:_ I knew he was a donor, but likes me? Why?  
_SHEPPARD:_ I wish I knew. Dave swears he likes you though.  
_SHEPPARD:_ He keeps asking me when I'm bringing you home.  
_MCKAY:_ When you want to relationship to end, that's when you bring me home.  
_MCKAY:_ Ask Jeannie how bad it was with Katie Brown's family.  
_SHEPPARD:_ Let's be honest, everyone in NASA knew Katie's family was going to hate you.  
_MCKAY:_ AND NO ONE WARNED ME?  
_SHEPPARD:_ YOU THROW THINGS AT PEOPLE'S HEADS!  
_MCKAY:_ I do not!

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@ChucktheCampbell How long did you have the lump on your head from the coffee mug? #ProvingAPoint

**GC Chuck** @ChucktheCampbell  
@ColJSheppard That depends on the probability of another altercation with one. #TheFirstTime? #OrTheLastTime?

**Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
@ColJSheppard @ChucktheCampbell I hate you both.

@JSCFlightDirector Direct Messages  
**Dr. Elizabeth Weir** @NASA Director  
_You two are extremely good for publicity. That said..._

@ColJSheppard Direct Messages  
**Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
_Elizabeth just gave me a lecture on throwing things.  
We also have two weeks off when you get home._

> TO: J. Sheppard  
>  FROM: Omni Shoreham Hotel  
>  Subject: Reservation Confirmation #2113-654
> 
> Hello, Mr Sheppard!  
>  We at Omni thank you for scheduling your stay for _October 12th – October 17th_. We have set aside a One-Bedroom Suite with King Bed in your name and will have it prepared for our 2pm check in time
> 
> If you would like to purchase any packages to be attached to this reservation, please call our front desk and our staff will be happy to assist you.
> 
> We look forward to your stay!

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@DaveSheppard I booked the Omni Shoreham 10/12 to 10/17. #ProdigalSonReturns

**The Other Sheppard** @DaveSheppard  
@ColJSheppard I'll alert the twins.

**Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
@DaveSheppard @ColJSheppard Shouldn't you have alerted me too?

**Call Me John** @ColJSheppard  
@JSCFlightDirector I booked the Omni Shoreham 10/12 to 10/17. #Vacation

_”Meeting John's Family” Panic Attack Counter: 12_

LETTERS Message System, Access: NASA, J. Sheppard.  
 _MCKAY:_ They hung a sign in Mission Control re: panic attacks.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ I heard. Elizabeth sent me pictures.  
 _MCKAY:_ I am surrounded by assholes.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ See, told you Spaceballs was a good movie!

_”Meeting John's Family” Panic Attack Counter: 20_

The rehab center wasn't isolated: part of reacclimatizing to Earth included visits from people they hadn't seen in months and talking to someone who wasn't on the other side of a radio or computer. So Rodney was perfectly able to walk into the the center, plop down in a chair across from John, and announce, “You do realize that I can't remember names, birthdays, or how to hold a child, right?”

“You do realize that I don't particularly care, right?” John carried on eating his lunch. Hey, his significant other having a panic attack was important, but he also had food that hadn't been reconstituted. Priorities.

“I also say the wrong thing at the wrong time a lot.”

“Yep.”

“And I may have called your father something derogatory recently.”

“Well aware.”

A few minutes of quiet fell and John savored the taste and crunch of corn kernels that were squishy, salty, and _not freeze-dried_ ; he stared at the chocolate pudding that he might need to take back to his room because getting a hard-on over food was generally frowned upon in the middle of the rehab mess hall.

(It wouldn't have been the first time.)

“John!”

He blinked up at Rodney. “We're going.”

“I hate you.”

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

“Thank you very much, Inigo Montoya.”

_”Meeting John's Family” Panic Attack Counter: 39_

Rodney was silent from the gate to baggage claim to the car, but he chattered all the way from the airport to the hotel to Dave's house. John wasn't sure if he was trying to expel his nervousness or if he was trying to distract himself, but either way, it made it rather easy to corral Rodney from place to place until he was walking up to greet Dave and summarily tripped on the edge of a rug.

He went flying, John and Dave both reached to catch him, and after Sarah calmed the dog, Rodney muttered, “Hi?”

Dave laughed hard. “Nice to meet you in person, Rodney.”

@MillersPost Direct Messages  
**Rodney McKay PhD PhD** @JSCFlightDirector  
_I fell on my face 2mins in and then threw up on his father's shoes._  
_He thought it was funny._  
_I'm dating a man with mental illness._

* * *

“I really don't know about this.”

“You'll let me take you on a plane that is literally pointing its nose at the Earth and dropping, but you won't let me take you a cruise?”

Rodney gave John his best grouch face, and muttered something under his breath before saying, “That plane has been tested to design specs and it has the world's best pilots making sure it doesn't fall out of the sky. Those cruise ships... do you not remember the cruises in the teens? Between the dysentery and how many ran aground, I'm surprised the entire industry didn't fold back then.”

“Number one, I don't think it was dysentery, and number two, I think you're being a little overdramatic.” John pointed out, “Most of those captains come from the military. They're extremely well trained.”

“So was the crew of the Titanic.”

“Rodney.”

“Fine, I will accept that they're good captains, but I still don't think this is a good plan for a trip.”

John sighed. “Okay, what would you prefer?”

“You can't laugh...”

“Oh, this'll be good.”

(John did end up getting Rodney on a cruise, short a journey though it was: turned out that Disney World still operated the Jungle Cruise.

“This one sinks and I won't drown.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable, Rodney.”)


	11. An Interview with John Sheppard




	12. Between Missions Four and Five

It always took him a few days, even two missions later.

“John?”

Rodney was barefoot, sleep still drooping his eyes; his pajama pants were long enough to drag on the floor and were collecting muck from the steps, his _My Boyfriend is The Awesome Space Pilot_ tee not nearly warm enough for the cool of September.

John sighed and pulled himself out from under the falling rain, tromping toward the back door. Mud clung to his feet, all the way up to his ankles, and he shivered a little, feeling the itch of grass as the blades slid between his toes. He didn't say anything when he reached Rodney, simply pressed a kiss to the other's lips before guiding him into the house.

They stripped down in the middle of their kitchen. Their sodden clothes went straight into the washer, new ones pulled from the recently-stopped dryer; the cat twined through their legs, begging for a midnight snack that Rodney guiltily handed over.

“It's just one treat.”

“Uh huh.” John smirked at him, planning to use the hypocrisy later as blackmail.

Together, they moved into the living room—Rodney knew there wasn't anymore sleep for John to have—and settled into the window seat, John's back to Rodney's chest.

“You know, I think Heightmeyer could use this for a study.”

“What? Astronauts who can't sleep? Think they've already done a study on that.”

“Ass. You know what I mean.”

Rodney snorted. “You have a justifiable reason to need to get used to the sound of rain on the windows. Last I checked, one doesn't just _forget_ nearly dying in a decompression event.”

“I didn't nearly die. There was a whole lot of very safe not-dying that went on.”

“Heightmeyer says there's no difference in your head between the two, so shut up and let me do the gentlemanly thing and comfort you in your time of need.”

John made a face, then threw his hand to his forehead and announced, in a terrible southern belle accent, “Oh, Rodney, I do feel the vapors receding. Thank you so ever much for being here in my _time of need_.”

Rodney bit his ear, playful but retaliatory. “See if I get the good lube out later.”

“You know, there's something weird about the fact that we have good lube.”

“Shut up,” Rodney repeated, “and watch the fucking rain, King John.”

* * *

They were not drunk.

Just, for the record, very much not drunk.

High on something else, also not possible—NASA Medical was kind of particular about what went into their astronaut's bodies. And Rodney was too much of a self-admitted hypochondriac to do drugs.

No, the pair had been stone-cold sober when they'd walked into the tattoo parlor, well within their right minds when John had presented the guy with a drawing before pushing Rodney into the seat.

“You're still sure about this?”

Rodney hadn't hesitated, nodding back as he pulled the shirt up and off, baring the spot John had shaved for him that morning. He practically zoned out while the needle worked, John's fingers carding through Rodney's hair while he craned his neck to watch the print rise and color, and when it was all over, Rodney stared at it in the mirror for a solid twenty minutes.

He wished he could do the same now, stare at the tattoo, lose himself in something that was purely John, but he couldn't: Mission Control was a poor place to randomly disrobe, even more so when they were amid the launch countdown.

Instead, Rodney sated himself by pressing a hand into his hip, the ointment covered skin pressing into the soft fabric of his trousers. A spark of pain fed the already strong adrenaline rush, a reminder of the pattern hidden under his clothes.

Up on the screen, GATESHIP's main engines began to spit fire then roared to life.

“We have main engine start.” John's voice echoed through the room, fed there from the LCC. “We have main engine ignition.”

The larger structures of the pad swayed as the shuttle lifted off, booster kicking in for the added thrust, and Rodney took a steadying breath as he heard Jacob Carter give his customary send-off.

“Godspeed.”

John's reply was immediate, “With help from below.”

Rodney let out the breath, looking between his staff, and waited for LCC to transfer control, hand twitching against his thigh.

(“I can't bring you to the stars, but I can bring the stars to you,” John murmured, dropping kisses along the edge of the tattoo; he traced over Rodney's hip, the streak of blue and black and white that now colored his boyfriend's body.

Pegasus Irregular, the galaxy they kept reaching toward.

“If you weren't leaving in two days...” Rodney trailed off.

John didn't need the rest of the sentence though, telling him, “Design it while I'm gone. It'll be my coming home present that way. I'll come out of rehab and get some nice new ink.”

“You'll give Lam a fucking heartattack if you show up with a tattoo that she didn't know you were getting.”

“What's another lecture on tetanus and hepatitis.” John smiled against his side, biting down on the soft curve of his belly. “It'll be worth it.”)


	13. Mission Five

“Houston, ATLANTIS.”

“Go, ATLANTIS.”

“What's the latest update on McKay?”

“Standby,” Radek sighed; he looked up to Elizabeth's office, where the lights were off, her computer gone, and wished she were here to deal with Rodney's partner. But Elizabeth, along with Jeannie, were trading shifts at the hospital, neither able to take the duty from him.

Carson flicked a finger and both flipped over to the private channel, where the former asked, “Do you want me to tell him?”

“I can do it.”

“You don't have to, Radek.”

“Ano.”

They clicked back.

“ATLANTIS, Houston.”

“ATLANTIS ready.”

Radek pulled in a breath... and glanced at Carson, who gave him a kind look and told the crew, “They had to remove a piece of his skull to give his brain room to swell. It's not an uncommon treatment,” then, “He's been placed in an induced coma as well.”

A whispered, “Oh,” came through the line, and Jennifer asked, “Have they identified the infection?”

“Pending the culture results, they suspect it's fungal. Aspergillus.”

“Cannonball present on the MRI?”

“Yes.”

This time a very clear, “Shit,” resounded through Mission Control, but for the first time in NASA history, no one dared remind the crew about language use. Instead, Carson told his colleague, “They may blow out his kidneys with the meds, but Fraiser is fighting hard for him to live.”

“Janet? Good. Even Rodney's not bullheaded enough to disobey her.”

He nodded and gave her a small laugh, “Aye.”

For a moment, the radio went quiet, which sent everyone back to paying attention to their screens rather than listening to the Flight Surgeon, when John's gruff, tired voice broke through, “Houston.”

“ATLANTIS,” Radek spit back, entirely by rote.

“What's the standby possibility on JUMPER?”

There was the question Elizabeth had expected to come.

In turn, Radek asked, “Current status on your projects?”

Jennifer was the first to reply, saying, “Completed, Flight,” before being followed by Evan, Laura, Oliver, and Amelia. Ronon answered, “I can stow the final EVA until next mission. Teyla's good,” which left John to say, “I'll be completing the course maneuver and adjustment in two hours.”

(Up in ATLANTIS, John clutched his hands into fists, mouthing to himself, “Ten days. If they say no, it'll only be ten more days,” because otherwise he might lose his mind.

Because seriously: _ten days_.)

Beside him, Sam Carter whispered, “I'll talk to Elizabeth and Canaveral,” and Radek nodded, relaying, “ATLANTIS, we'll speak with Kennedy.”

* * *

ATLANTIS, by her design, did have areas with standard Earth gravity: the living quarters, the kitchen and (as John called it) the family room.

The half of the main corridor that linked living quarters to cockpit.

“Fore!”

Evan had to leap out of the way, the golf ball whizzing by his ear at the last second, and he glared at his colleague, “Didn't McKay talk to you and Sheppard about this years ago?”

“Yep.”

Ronon set up another ball, yelled again, and sent it sailing by. It slowed as the gravity lessened, and then, still having forward momentum, rolled along in zero-g toward the closed bulkhead.

“And you're still playing golf at midnight?”

“It's this,” Ronon shrugged, “or I'm gonna have to take one of the suits and primal scream.”

Ah. Yeah, hitting things safely inside the station in a way that nothing could be damaged versus going on an unscheduled EVA without Houston being aware... Ronon had gone with the option that would leave them a little annoyed but not putting himself or anyone else in danger.

A solid whack and another ball joined the others.

“You, uh, hear anything else?”

Lorne sighed at that question: when Rodney had gotten sick, they'd banded together to make sure all the projects were run though in case NASA would be willing to eat the expense of bringing them home early, but Director Weir herself had explained that while they would have done so—ten days was a menial amount in the grand scheme of the 8 months they'd already been up there—they couldn't.

_”Canaveral's staff could scramble for a launch prep, but it would only get you all home three days earlier than we planned.”_

“Nothing new. He's still holding his own for the moment.”

The golf club dropped into the bag, Ronon leaning against the archway to the family room. “That's better than nothing, I guess,” he muttered, and looked up at his friend. “Sheppard's gonna try to bail on rehab when we get home.”

Evan snorted. “Yeah, I know. Beckett already warned Lam that she's going to have to tie him to a bed to keep him there.”

“He'll just try to leave with the bed attached.”

“Please, he'll use it as his getaway vehicle.”

At that, Ronon cracked a smile, saying, “That'll be a new form of skateboarding.”

And Evan added, “The Director will have to issue a new statement about the psychological testing we go through,” before walking over the stand beside Ronon. “He's going to be fine, you know. If there's one thing in this universe that we can count on, it's that Rodney McKay can browbeat germs into leaving.”

Ronon nodded in agreement, then, after a moment's watching of the stilled golf balls he still needed to collect, announced, “Bet you ten bucks that Sheppard proposes.”

“I am so not taking that bet.”


	14. After Mission Five

Out of the coma, he'd been weak as a kitten and it'd taken some physical therapy to get Rodney's wasted muscles back into shape. That'd been aggravating enough—Rodney McKay did _not_ handle his body fighting him well—but the facility's dietitian had left his room nearly in tears when she'd tried to explain his meal plan: nice healthy, calorie-dense meals that'd gain him back some of the many pounds he'd lost, along with snacks, juice, and decaf tea.

No caffeine.

(It took three days of listening to him whinge on about needing coffee, before John appeared on the floor and gave the nurses an apologetic look, then entered Rodney's room with a Starbucks cup held aloft.

“No espresso because I'm not so suicidal as to piss Carson off _that_ much when he hears I brought you this, but... I present to you dark roast with a drop of cream.”

Rodney took it and then John's hand, drinking it down over several minutes; when he finished, he licked the dregs off his lips, grinned at John, and said, “Best fiance ever.”)

* * *

**LETTERS Message System Application**  
 **Username:** JPSheppard  
 **Password:** **********

Please select internal messaging system and click enter:  
[ _NASA_ ] [ JPL ] [ JSC ] [ KSC ] [ ATLANTIS ]  
 **[ENTER]**  


Chat: Ronon Dex (/AC/ATLANTIS)  
 _SHEPPARD:_ I emailed everyone the mission spec for 6.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Let me know if there's anything that needs changing.  
 _DEX:_ Yeah, sure. Should be fine though.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Figured-you'd be good if McKay wrote you in for a mission length  
 _SHEPPARD:_ EVA by tether from the back of the station.  
 _DEX:_ Think he'd clear that?  
 _SHEPPARD:_ I think he'd laugh us both off campus.  
 _DEX:_ Could be fun though.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Never said it wouldn't.  
 _DEX:_ Anything else?  
 _SHEPPARD:_ Elizabeth's surprise party.  
 _DEX:_ [typing...]  
 _SHEPPARD:_ No stripper routine this year, please. There's going to be children present.  
 _DEX:_ First, she liked that routine.  
 _DEX:_ Second, hang on. Bartender's texting me. Wants to know what I feel like  
 _DEX:_ so it's ready when I get home. All-star service, man.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ You are the LAST person who should live above a bar.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ I don't know how you don't get liver fx tested more often.  
 _DEX:_ My liver and I are healthy as fuck.  
 _SHEPPARD:_ I'll remind you of that the next time you've got a hangover.  
 _DEX:_ I don't get hungover.  
 _DEX:_ I detox. 


End file.
